


Misfits

by fannishliss



Series: Kink List [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Class Fantasies, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Steve and Bucky's dreams about the future, True Love, cameos by the Avengers, my kink list challenge, song lyrics but not a songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kisses on New Year's Eve:<br/>1939, Bucky and Steve go to see the ball drop on Times Square.<br/>2014, Steve attends the Avengers Gala.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You might want to look at Irving Berlin's original lyrics for Puttin on the Ritz:  
> http://www.barrypopik.com/index.php/new_york_city/entry/puttin_on_the_ritz_1929  
> There are also some links to youtubes of the song at the end. :) 
> 
> “Misfits” as used in the song refers to second-hand finery that doesn’t quite fit.

December 31, 1939

“Wouldn’t you rather just listen on the radio?” Steve complained. “Too cold! Too crowded! Someone just tried to steal my wallet!” 

“No!” Bucky laughed. “I can stay home and listen to the radio any night.” He leaned in and spoke directly into Steve’s better ear. “I only get one chance a year to come out in public and hang all over my best guy and kiss him at midnight, and that’s what I’m gonna do!” 

“Bucky, no!” Steve scolded, but secretly he was smiling. “You wanna get us arrested!”

“I’m not getting anyone arrested,” Bucky urged. “When have I ever got us arrested. That’s your job.” 

Steve clammed up. He’d been caught in one too many marches, protests, and out and out riots — schooled by his very own sainted ma, who never missed an opportunity to demonstrate for the rights of the people. 

“So, you just stand there, and shuffle your feet, and I’ll keep us warm,” Bucky said. “How many pairs of socks you got on?” 

“Three!” Steve shouted. 

Bucky laughed. “Just keep moving. Like this.” Bucky listened for a second to the music drifting out from one of the clubs into the crowd. He caught the beat and began to step, quick and smooth. Steve couldn’t help but smile at the contented look on Bucky’s face as he danced. Bucky had stationed them on purpose so they could hear the music, to pass away the time. The Square got more crowded every minute, it seemed; a thronging mob, showing up in public to watch the old year pass away, and wish for better times in the new. 

Times Square, just before midnight on the last night of the decade, was crowded with revelers ready to forget the hardships of the thirties hoping for something better. War in Europe loomed on the horizon, but no one wanted to look very hard at the future, other than to make New Year’s wishes and celebrate like there was no reason to fear tomorrow. 

Steve didn’t like the press of the crowd, being too short to see much over the heads of the taller folks around him, but Bucky was always good about shouldering people out of Steve’s space. As the crowd grew more dense, Bucky pressed against Steve, and no one seemed to notice or care. Many people in the crowd were drinking from flasks and most of them were in couples or in small groups. 

Bucky stood right behind Steve and sang into his ear. “If you’re blue and you don’t know where to go to why don’t you go where Harlem flits? Putting on the Ritz.” 

It was one of Bucky’s most favorite songs. He’d even bought a record of it for his parents’ Victrola. Bucky at age thirteen had been mighty impressed by the dance number in the movie; nowadays, if he had two dimes to rub together, he made the trip on the A train to Harlem to hear the great jazz players. 

“High hats and Arrow collars, white spats and fifteen dollars, spending every dime, for a wonderful time!” 

Steve didn’t say a word. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had fifteen dollars between them after rent, but Bucky loved to dream. 

“Look at that fella, putting on the Ritz!” Bucky interjected, demonstrating the dress coat his parents had gotten him for Christmas three years ago. 

Steve pretended to dismiss Bucky’s suit with a critical glare. “You look at him, I can’t!” 

Bucky was all smiles. The closer the crowd pressed them, the happier he got. The band moved on to another song, and Bucky danced, and sang when he knew the words, and Steve shuffled, as ordered, hat pulled down over his ears and warm scarf pulled up over his nose. 

Five minutes to midnight and the crowd was crazy. Times were hard, but the excitement in Times Square was free. Anybody with two feet could hop a train and get there. Steve had to admit, the atmosphere was contagious. His feet weren’t even numb, because Bucky kept singing in his ear and making him dance. For once, he was happy. 

One minute, and the crowd had begun to cheer and roar. It was like a ballgame at Ebbet’s Field, but even more concentrated. Steve felt himself being swept up by the emotion of the crowd. The thirties, that long hard decade, was over. Maybe good times lay just around the corner. What was the saying? a chicken in every pot? It had sure been a long time coming, but maybe, it would be soon. 

“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!” Bucky was right in Steve’s ear, pressed up against him, ignored by the crowd. Steve chanted along, eyes fixed on the ball. “Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!” 

“Happy New Year!” Everyone was yelling, universal hilarity, people were kissing, and Bucky was standing as close to Steve as was humanly possible. 

“Happy New Year, sweetheart,” Bucky said into Steve’s ear, and gave him a squeeze and a warm press of lips to his temple. 

“Happy New Year, Bucky!” Steve said, pressing back against Bucky as surreptitiously as he could manage, full of the warmest glow he could imagine. The band in the bar struck up “Auld Lang Syne,” and the crowd around began to drunkenly sing the words they knew. 

“Let’s get outta here,” Bucky drawled, smiling and happy. 

Steve followed Bucky and soon they were on the train home. 

The subway car rocked and rattled, so familiar. Everyone in New York, it seemed, was smiling, for one magical hour. Folks were bundled up, as warm as they could, little bits and pieces of finery attached to themselves, whatever they could muster, trying to look richer than they were, putting on the Ritz like the misfits in the song, when they knew very well they would never set foot in the grandest hotel in the world. 

So what if he and Bucky had joined a throng of misfits. Steve was warm and happy. He was going home with Bucky to their place on Montague Street, their very own place. So what if it was only one room, it had a stove and a kitchen sink and a pretty good view and terrific light. Steve remembered the darkest days of his life, when his Ma was dying, when the very foundations of his life were being uprooted. Bucky had come through, gotten them a place like he promised, worked his ass off, kept Steve from being tossed out on the street. When he had nothing, he had Bucky. He would proudly patch his clothes, if it meant a dime for something Bucky wanted. That’s how it was, with them, misfits or not. 

“You look happy,” Bucky smiled. 

“I am,” Steve acknowledged, and his eyes finished the promise, happy to be going home with you. 

Three flights of stairs took just as much of Steve’s breath away as ever, but he didn’t care. Bucky took it slow, just for him. They made it inside, and lo and behold, the room was warm — the furnace was still hanging in there, pouring out heat from the one radiator. 

Steve and Bucky unwound their scarves and hung up their coats. Bucky boiled up some weak coffee and added a wee drop of whiskey, and Steve gratefully drank it down. Before long they were snuggled together under the blankets. 

“What do you think the future will be like?” Bucky whispered. 

“Flying cars for sure,” Steve laughed. 

“Naw,” Bucky said. “Be serious.” 

“Whaddaya mean?” Steve asked. “I look like a fortune teller to you?” 

“A little gypsy mixed in with the Irish?” Bucky teased. “No, I mean, dontcha have a dream?” 

“This,” Steve said, fervently. “I know I complain — too poor, downtrodden, sick half the time — but if every day could end like this, with the two of us happy and warm and together, I swear, I would never complain again.” 

“You’re gonna have to confess that one, Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky said, throwing in the imitation of his mother’s Irish way of saying his name. It didn’t hurt as bad, anymore; it felt good to know that Bucky remembered her too. 

“I will not,” Steve said, but he knew he would complain his way through the Pearly Gates. It was just in his nature, never to be satisfied, always to be looking for ways things could be better. But tonight, things had gone so well. No one had torn Bucky off him, or slugged either one of them, or trailed them or ambushed them in an alley or called the cops. They had gone out together and had a great time and it had been fine. If only every day could be like January 1, 1940. 

“Well, I have dreams,” Bucky said. “I look forward to the day, when there are better jobs, when I don’t have to work at the docks all day, when I’m making better money. We’ll get a bigger place — one with hot water, and our own bathroom, with a real tub!” 

“You and your clawfoot porcelain tub,” Steve mocked. It was the crowning glory of Bucky’s Ma’s house. 

“You wouldn’t laugh, if you were laying back in a nice tub, full of hot water, maybe even bubbles!” 

“What do I want with bubbles?” Steve said. 

“Nothing!” Bucky exclaimed with delight. “That’s the thing! The bubbles are just for the hell of it!” 

Steve shook his head, but Bucky’s enthusiasm did make him smile. “Why can’t you just imagine the kitchen instead of the tub. Imagine us one of those electric Frigidaires, and fill it up with food while you’re at it!” Winifred Barnes had been pining for a Frigidaire for years on end, until George had banned the word from the house. 

“Okay, Stevie — I’ll imagine steak, and oysters, and lobsters, and all kinds of vegetables fresh from the country. You’ll eat so well, you’ll need to let your pants out!” 

Steve Rogers was adept at tailoring his own pants — but never to let them out. 

“Every so often we’ll go downtown, to one of those fancy hotels.” Bucky’s imagination suddenly swerved from the domestic to the city life. “We’ll be dressed to the nines. You’d be able to see your face in the shine of my shoes. Oh, we’ll look so swell, by golly. Maybe we’ll go up to Harlem. They’ll let us in to the best clubs, and we’ll sit at a table and drink Manhattans, and Billie Holliday will be ten feet away.” 

“That would be amazing,” Steve admitted. He didn’t understand jazz, or feel it the way Bucky did from the cockles of his heart to the soles of his feet, but he knew when he was in the presence of greatness. Bucky saved his money sometimes when he caught wind of some new rising star, and as a result, Steve had seen some amazing performers that he never would have seen without Bucky guiding the way. 

“And in the future, Stevie, they won’t care what two guys do together,” Bucky whispered. “We’ll be two fine gentlemen, like anyone else.” 

“We already are two good men, as good as anyone,” Steve insisted, ready to get his dander up. 

“I know that, Steve, but someday? the world will see it our way.” 

“Someday,” Steve sighed. He snuggled back against Bucky, and Bucky held him close, and Steve didn’t care if someday ever came, as long as he had Bucky by his side. 

***  
December 31, 2014. 

Steve felt like such a fraud in his tuxedo, rubbing shoulders with the some of the wealthiest people in America — and some from outside America too. Steve’s ma would’ve had a list of things a mile long on every one of them, always ready for a confrontation with the ruling classes. But Steve had a job now, and it was to look good, smile, and keep his opinions to himself. These people wanted to be seen, and more importantly wanted to write checks to help the good people of New York recover from the alien attack, and also, they wanted to get on Tony and Pepper’s good side, acknowledging the legitimacy of the Avengers Initiative. 

Somehow Pepper’s lawyers had gotten the Avengers classified as a non-profit NGO for the purposes of “defending humanity.” This meant, in part, that the liability for destruction when the Avengers fought their enemies in public places was limited and insured. To Steve, it all felt very strange. As a volunteer in the Army, it was taken for granted that he would cause destruction, and sometimes, loss of life, in defense of his country’s highest ideals. No one ever sued a soldier for doing his job. Since the collapse of SHIELD, Steve no longer held rank or reported to anyone, except in informal meetings with Tony, Pepper, Maria, Bruce, often Sam, sometimes Natasha, sometimes Thor, and rarely, Clint. Occasionally Clint’s friend Kate or the Parker kid showed up at the Tower. Steve didn’t miss the army; he’d never been one for following orders, and he couldn’t understand how Tony’s friend Col. Rhodes managed the contradictions. But he was still expected to show up to restrain the havoc when some maniac let slip the dogs of war, and the price he paid was to stand around in a $4000 suit, approved by Pepper, drinking champagne so expensive that he didn’t even want to know, selected by Tony. 

“You wanted a Manhattan?” a soft voice said at his elbow. 

“Uh, sorry,” Steve said, and turned towards the server with an apologetic frown. The server was wearing a standard tux like all the other servers in the room but it fit pretty tight across the shoulders. His hair was dark and pulled severely back and worn in a low bun the way men did these days, his eyes were blue, and he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Steve couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe. Luckily the Manhattans, one for each of them, were still on the tray, or Steve would’ve dropped the glass and spilled it all over the floor. As it was the tuxedo’d fella scooped the champagne coupe out of Steve’s nerveless fingers and set it on the tray. 

“Wanna get some air?” Bucky asked. 

Steve nodded. He drank in the sight of Bucky — clean, well-groomed and lucid — nothing like the crazed assassin who’d attacked him in DC, worlds away from the bedraggled phantom on the Smithsonian’s security tape. 

Steve caught Natasha’s eye as they headed for the balcony and gave her the low sign to let her know to keep her distance. 

Bucky smirked and nodded at the Black Widow, the old smirk Steve had always loved. He didn’t know whether he was about to laugh or cry. 

The party was held on the Avengers common floor, with a wide patio just outside the glass doors. Steve never stood near the railings — unsure whether he was resisting the urge to pitch himself off, or afraid he might be pushed. They found their way into a shadowy alcove. Bucky’s tray, somehow, was gone, and Bucky held open his arms. Steve fell into his embrace, and lost it on Bucky’s clearly stolen tux, that smelled of someone else’s strong cologne. 

Bucky held him as he laughed and cried by turns.

“Oh, Bucky,” was all Steve could say. 

“Stevie, it’s almost midnight,” Bucky said. 

“Oh!” Steve sniffled. He hadn’t even been thinking about the gala being in celebration of New Year’s Eve.

“You gonna kiss me to get the year started out right?” Bucky teased. 

Inside the band was playing Putting on the Ritz. Steve had seen Fred Astaire’s 1946 movie, and the brilliant Frankenstein routine, and he’d even heard the disco version of the song. Here, with Bucky, was his favorite rendition ever. 

“Did you ask the band to play that?” Steve asked, deflecting Bucky’s question. 

“I strongly suggested it,” Bucky smirked. 

Steve almost wished that somewhere down the line he’d learned to dance, but he never had. He didn’t have the lungs for it, or the heart, before the serum, and afterward, there wasn’t time. A few stolen weekends of leave was all they’d had, and they’d danced those away like they always had, Bucky behind Steve, arms around his middle, head leaning on his shoulder, singing into his ear as Steve shuffled and they swayed in the rhythms Bucky led. 

Bucky sang the old words still, the words almost no one knew now. The old Harlem lyrics were gone, but Bucky still knew them, just like Steve. 

“Misfits,” Steve mumbled, plucking at his four thousand dollar cuffs. 

“That’s me for sure,” Bucky grumbled, flexing his shoulders against his too-tight stolen tux. 

“Where’d you get that anyway?” Steve inquired. Nothing seemed too pressing any more, not with Bucky’s cheek against his neck, Bucky’s arms, one warm, one cool whirring silver, wrapped around his waist. 

“Hill knows her stuff,” Bucky allowed, “but the wait staff included three deep cover Hydra agents, one of whom looks like me enough to get by.” Bucky flashed an ID that read John Kostopoulos.

“Your granma Eleni’s smiling down on you from Heaven,” Steve grinned. 

“Yup,” Bucky agreed. “Hey, the countdown’s almost started.” 

“Let’s go back in,” Steve said, thinking of his friends who were gathered inside. 

“Got the waterworks under control?” Bucky asked. 

“I think so,” Steve said.

“Tears make your eyes so blue,” Bucky said, wiping at Steve with gentle thumbs. 

“Sweet talker,” Steve smiled, and Bucky led him in. 

When they walked back in, all the Avengers were in a line at one end of the room. Silent signals passed through their hands, and Bucky followed Steve to the end of the line. Everyone was there: Bruce, Tony, Pepper, Maria, Natasha, Clint, Sam, Peter, Kate, even Thor in princely regalia, with Jane in her Asgardian garb and Darcy in an amazing figure-hugging white dress. 

“Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!” 

The band struck up “Auld Lang Syne,” and Bucky swept Steve into his arms. There, in front of America’s most powerful people, an elite cadre of members of the press, and every friend Steve had left alive, Steve leaned back in Bucky’s strong arms, just like he always had, and they laid claim to each other in a perfect lovers’ kiss for all the world to witness. The Avengers all clapped and stomped and whistled, and no one else in the room dared to do anything less. 

The future sure looked swell from where Steve was standing. And Tony had mentioned he'd made some progress with the flying cars.


	2. In which the Winter Soldier makes a Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a little bonus chapter about Bucky's thought process as he planned to make contact with Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to work out how Bucky would end up at the Gala in a Tux before I could write the story, so I thought I might as well share it!

  
Fact: priority one mission target Steven Grant Rogers, aka Captain America, currently resides at Stark Tower.    
  
Problem: Communications with Rogers monitored by ridiculous number of agencies.  
  
Problem: rogue HYDRA asset known as Winter Soldier (me) identified as public enemy; shoot on sight orders authorized at multiple levels of law enforcement. Utmost stealth imperative.  
  
Fact: Stark Industries CEO Virginia Potts and entrepreneur/inventor Anthony Stark throw annual New Year’s Gala requiring many dozens of support staff.    
  
MISSION: Gain proximity to Rogers by infiltrating Stark New Year’s Gala.    
  
Fact: Security at Stark Tower currently headed by Maria Hill, former second in command to SHIELD Director Nicholas J. Fury.    
  
Problem: Hill, known to be a thorough, insightful, and detail oriented agent, will apply rigorous security screening to companies and their employees hired to staff the Gala.    
  
Problem: The Tower AI known as JARVIS will monitor every guest and staff member as a potential threat.  
  
Secondary problem: The Gala presents an obvious target for security breach. Other agents wishing to infiltrate Stark Tower may also attempt to target the New Year’s Gala.  
  
Plan of Attack: infiltrate by impersonation.    
  
Action items:  
Study companies favored by Potts and Stark.  
Identify likely double among staff.  
Disable and impersonate on night of Gala.      
Good fitting tux a bonus.  
  
  
:)

**Author's Note:**

> ****
> 
> The first ball dropped over Times Square in 1907!
> 
> Here is a real victrola playing a 78. If you’ve never had the opportunity to hear a Victrola, watch this.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1b1-3x4Ca6I Harry Richman, 1929.  
> It’s mind boggling to realize that this high quality analog sound is being directly transmitted from the needle to what is essentially a big horn. There are no magnetic speakers, no amplifier, just the needle in the groove leading out to the horn (behind the screen in this floor model). 
> 
> Here’s one being played on a modern turntable with a 78 setting:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxgJKOBgzJI Earl Burnett, 1930. 
> 
> There is also the Danford Sisters, 1930. 
> 
> Fred Astaire is closely associated with this song, and recorded it in 1930, and again for the movie Blue Skies in 1946. Bucky might’ve liked the 1930 Astaire version because you can hear him tap dancing, but I think he’d have bought the Richman for his Ma. You can also find Richman’s 1930 movie version, with big dance numbers that Bucky would have adored as a kid. 
> 
> ===
> 
> This is a kink list story that is rated General Audiences! :D 
> 
> Class Fantasies is something I associate very strongly with New Year's Eve. I've always had this dream of going to a ritzy party in swanky clothes and drinking fabulous champagne (I don't even like champagne). So that's the dream I give Bucky and Steve, while Steve remains just as suspicious of rich people as his Socialist ma taught him to be. :D
> 
> For Class Fantasies, you might also like my earlier story, Call Me Baby, which has a certain amount of that well-dressed, very nice hotel, class fantasy aspect. :P


End file.
